For Better or Worse
by roxierocks
Summary: Harry reads something he shouldn't...You and Me Series 8


Disc: don't own it

A/n: sorry I haven't written for ages, but just to warn you, this is utter crap. I've just finished reading it through and am extremely disappointed with it, think I've got a small case of writer's block. However I'll post it anyway, cos I've written it now. Sorry, again for the crapness.

The crimson drips across the page in front of you, the bright streaks of colour bleeding into the surrounding whiteness, spreading their inky stain just outside the boundaries of the pen marks. Satisfaction oozes through your veins at the sight of the blemish which now decorates the essay. The slashes which will crumple the arrogant attitude attached to the owner. A well-earned T.

You push the essay aside, reaching for the next in the pile and an automatic sneer crosses your face when you read the name. For a moment you wonder whether it's even worth reading the damn thing as the student in question seems to make it his personal mission to write as much dribble as is scientifically possible on his parchment, and you sincerely doubt that this particular essay will hold any astounding revelations.

You sigh and pick up your quill beginning the tedious task of correcting grammar and mistakes such as "add seven grahms of mugwump root", making you wonder what exactly the students have been learning all these years.

"Severus?"

You ignore him.

He coughs slightly. "Severus?" 

You ignore him.

"Severus! Hello!"

You glare at him.

"For Merlin's sake, how, exactly, do you make it completely impossible for me to do anything with you in the room?"

He raises his eyebrows suggestively, and you turn away before he can see the smile gracing your lips.

"I was wondering about this book."

He holds up a large, black leather volume and you feel your heart jump into your throat.

"You shouldn't be reading that," you snap, rising and snatching the book from his hands.

"Hey!"

"This book is not for your eyes."

"Why?" he asks, kneeling on the sofa, eyes lit with the green fire which usually goes straight to your nether regions.

"Don't question me," you reply, sweeping across the room to replace the book on one of the redwood shelves which line the walls.

"What's in it?" he asks, ignoring your request completely.

"That is not your concern."

He scowls at you.

"You're so bloody impossible," he snaps, sinking sulkily back onto the sofa.    

You open your mouth to retort, then close it again and stalk back to your desk A argument is the last thing you need right now.

"What?" he asks. "No scathing reply, no cutting comment? You're losing your touch."

You stand up sharply, your chair slamming against the wall behind you.

For a split second you see a glimmer of fear in his eyes before he manages to cover it with defiance.

"I have a staff meeting," you say shortly. "Please do not be here when I return."

 You storm from the room, slamming the door behind you.

Very mature.

He is still there when you return, and for a moment you are relieved. He is just what you need; someone to relive the ridicule that Albus dares to call a meeting with, to vent your frustrations of the teachers and students on, to hold and curl up with in front of the fire.

But then you see his face.

And you know he's read the book.

He's sitting in a chair facing the empty fireplace. He is white. His hands are curled around the arms of the chair. His stare is blank.

"You read the book."

It isn't a question. You curse yourself for being foolish enough to leave him alone with damn thing.

When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Yes, I read it."

You don't know what to do. It is a part of your life he was never supposed to know about, never have to think of, never have to experience.

He turns, and you are startled to see a glimmer of tears in his eyes. Is he crying for you or because of you?

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I can see why you didn't want me to read it." 

You don't reply, don't move, still unsure of his feelings, of his reaction.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "So sorry."

He is hurting, you realise. Hurting, but why? Because of your pain? Because of his shattered illusions of you?  
"I had no idea. No idea it was…like that. That they were so cruel to their own."

You laugh bitterly. "Neither did I, until it was too late." Your voice sounds raw, as if your throat has been scraped with sandpaper.

He lowers his head, and you feel a startling wave of something terrifyingly close to desperation. Is this the end, is it all about to be over?

You close your eyes, unable to look at him, afraid he will sense your sudden vulnerability.

You hear him stand. 

He is leaving, you realise. He is about to walk away from you. 

Never did you imagine you would one day be in this position, and now you are here you understand why you tried so hard to avoid it.

Because it hurts. It hurts like hell.

His fingers brush your cheek, a last piece of intimacy. Something to cling to.

"Look at me."

Obediently your eyes open, before you register his words, register the fact that he is speaking to you.

"I love you."

And in that moment it all snaps back into place. In that moment you know nothing has changed.

"If you're not careful, Potter, you might start to actually believe that sentiment before too long."

He grins at you.

"The name's Harry."

"Perhaps," you say delicately, "we should talk."

And you do. For the first time, perhaps, in your life you really talk. And then he talks. And suddenly it seems that you know far more about each other than you've ever known about anyone, than anyone's ever known about you.

The thought doesn't disturb you as much as it should. In fact, it doesn't disturb you at all.

Maybe you are losing you touch. But then again, it doesn't feel so bad.


End file.
